In Which Dean is De
by DisenchantedDestroya
Summary: Something's wrong with Sam and Dean wants answers. Teenage(ish) Winchesters. Not slash, but can be seen as such if you squint. Dean's POV. Edited because of line-break issues.


I've always loved water, the cool thrill of it gliding down my throat like the blood haring through my veins.

Okay, so maybe it's not as poetic as all that but water after a run is better than sex. Or not. Maybe on par with a blow job, but not better than sex. It just feels that way right now, good I mean, trickling down into my body and quelling the fires of extensive exercise.

I fucking hate running. It makes me feel like I'm being chased which, nine out of ten times, is true. It also makes me wish I had my beautiful Impala with me, which I don't. Largely because it's with Dad and Dad's not here; he's off fighting fuck knows what fuck knows where.

Leaving me and Sammy alone. _A-fucking-gain._

I don't mind it though. Not really. I like spending bro-time with Sammy just so long as he doesn't know that. The thing I _do_ mind, though, is Sam thinking that Dad hates him or doesn't want him. Which is what normally happens whenever Dad is off hunting without us.

And that's why I've been running. Because I've just gone to the local 7-Eleven to get food and I don't want Sammy all alone for too long. Sure, he's sixteen but that doesn't mean he can look after himself.

Well, it sure as hell doesn't mean that _I_ can't look after him. It's my job, duty and pride after all.

* * *

"C'mon, Sammy-"

"It's _Sam._"

I wink at him, smirking.

"Alright then, _Samantha_." He scowls at me and I laugh, reveling in the red tinge biting at his cheeks. "Well, you do insist on having girl hair." I reach a hand out to ruffle a hand through aforementioned locks but he swats it away, leaning back in his chair at the rickety square dinner table. "Back to the point. Eat more."

He pouts at me, just as he's been doing since he was old enough to realise I could reach the cookie jar, and crosses his arms over his chest. Rolling my eyes I take another glug of my Slurpee and look around the motel room; it looks like every damn expense _was_ spared.

My eyes fixate back on Sammy, trying to use my glare alone to tell him that there's no damn way that he's gonna get away with just a mouthful of hotdog and a sip of water. He's not wasting away on my watch. Screw what Dad would do to me if he did, it's what _I'd_ do to me if I did. I swear, I love that kid too damn much.

"Not hungry."

"Not bothered." I shoot back, hating how I'm _having_ to be the bad guy here. But hey, if Dad isn't going to act like a father to the kid then I guess I'll have to. "You're eating it."

He raises his eyes to meet mine and I can see the same Winchester fire in them that Dad possesses, that he says I possess too. It means Sammy's a stubborn bitch but it also mean that I am too. And there's no damn way I'm going to back down here. Nu-uh.

He's too damn skinny as it is. Hell, last school he went to phoned me up about, asked if Sammy was eating alright. I waved them off, saying that the kid was like a bottomless pit with the right food, just has a bat-shit-crazy metabolism. Now though, I'm not so sure. And it kills me because he's my _baby brother_; I should be able to tell if something's not quite right.

"What you eaten today?"

"What's this? The Spanish fucking Inquisition?" He drawls back and I inwardly wince at the venom in the tone, a sound that doesn't belong coming out of my brother's mouth. Not ever. I glower at him, something that always gets through even when words can't. Mostly because I think he associates it with trouble. "I had an apple at lunch."

"And yesterday?"

He flicks his eyes to the side, to the ceiling, to anything that isn't _me_. All of a sudden my appetite evaporates, the slice of pie waiting for me in the microwave having lost all of its earlier appeal.

"I wasn't hungry." He mumbles, clearly knowing what it sounds like to me. "So I didn't eat anything yesterday."

"Then you're eating that damn hotdog." I snarl, making my voice vicious. Not because I want to scare Sammy, I'd never want that, but because he needs to know that not eating isn't acceptable. He needs to know that I care enough about him to make him eat. "And whatever I else I tell ya to eat after that too."

"Bite me."

"Not until you bite some food."

I know it's not a proper fight, not yet anyway, but Sam's attitude still stings. It's not that him acting all bitchy at me on occasion is new, it's the fact that he's being so blasé about something that could make him really sick. And he can't even to seem to see that I'm worried about it.

Deep down I know I should try talking about it, tell him that he can come to me if something serious is bothering him. But he should _know _that already and just the idea that doesn't kills me.

So I slam my fists down on the table, making Sammy jump and look up at me, fear rampant in his eyes. Good. If I can't convince him to eat it I'll have to scare him into it. This has gone far enough for my liking.

"Eat it or wear it, Sam." I pick up the barely-touched hotdog, holding it out towards him menacingly. He turns his head to the side, not even giving me the time of day. "Samuel Winchester, you're eating the fucking thing or I'm calling Dad."

At that Sammy springs to his feet with such vigour that his chair falls to the ground. His eyes are ablaze with the sting of tears and I want nothing more than to tell him it's alright, that he doesn't need to eat the damn thing. Apart from he does and I'd be shitty big brother if I let him get away with fucking starving himself.

"Like he'd care."

And then he's gone, storming into the bathroom and locking the door behind him. Leaving with nothing but damning regret and the worst feeling of nervousness that I've had since my first hunt.

I hear the shower start running and sigh; why can't I ever get anything right with him?

* * *

Sammy's been in the shower for well over an hour. The water must have gone cold by now but I don't think him being in there has anything to do with matters of personal hygiene. More like he just wanted to get away from me.

_Youch._ That hurts worse than any pain I've ever felt. Trust me, that's saying something.

Sure, we've had our fair share of brotherly tiffs but nothing like this. Nothing that's left Sammy looking like he was about to cry. And then he stormed off, like he didn't want me to see him crying. Not that I blame him but still, _ouch_. It hurts, y'know, the idea of my baby brother being hurt or ill and him not letting me help him. Acting like he doesn't want help at all. And then there's that last comment; does he really think that Dad doesn't care about him?

Looks like I've got one hell of a mess to clean up here. Dad's damn mess too, by the looks of it. Although I'm doubt I'm completely blameless for whatever shit's going on with Sammy. I'll fix it though. Of course I will.

I'm his big brother. It's what I do.

* * *

It's been two hours and thirty-four minutes since Sammy locked himself in the bathroom. It's been an hour and sixteen minutes since I heard the water finally stop running. It's been forty-nine minutes since I yelled at him to come out and he just told me, ever so eloquently, to 'fuck off'.

So here I am, sat on the floor against the bathroom door, listening for any signs of life. I'd knock the door down if I didn't think it'd wind up hurting Sammy.

Sighing, I decide it's time to try again. I won't stop trying either, not until he comes out of there and is sat with me, telling me exactly what's going on in that crowded head of his. Hell, right now I feel like I might even hug the kid if he comes out.

I just want him not to be mad at me anymore, or to at least not be fucking _hiding_ from me like I'm some kind of demon.

"Sammy?" I call, trying to ease my voice into sounding caring, loving. Like a brother. Like a father. "Sam?"

"What?"

He doesn't sound angry anymore, just exhausted. Exhausted and broken. I think that might be even worse than him sounding angry at me. It sure hurts more.

"You gonna come out of there anytime soon, Buddy?" I lean my head back against the wooden door, praying to a God that probably doesn't give a shit about two kids in a motel room that Sammy will listen to me and I won't somehow manage to piss him off again. "'Cause I think Godzilla vs. Mothra is coming on soon on telly. Thought we could watch it together."

"1964 version?"

"1964 version."

Naturally, I'm bullshitting through my teeth but I said that I 'think' it might be on, so I can just chalk it up to my stupidity. There's bound to be some other B-rate horror movie on, though, so Sammy and I can watch that instead. Of course there will be; it's Saturday night, after all.

"So, you gonna come out or you gonna watch it through the door?"

"Okay, De."

Shit.

He hasn't called me De in Christ knows how long. This crap must be serious.

But still, it can wait until after we've watched a movie. At least that'll give me time to think of what I'm gonna say to the kid to make it all be alright again.

* * *

We wound up watching some piss-poor excuse for a movie about aliens eating brains or some shit like that. I wasn't too focussed on it, seeing as my baby brother hasn't eaten a damn thing for two days, maybe even longer. It's definitely been a lot longer since I've seen him eat anything of great substance.

But now the credits are rolling and I can't put it off any longer.

Apart from Sammy hasn't made a noise since about ten minutes into the movie. I just assumed that he was engrossed in it, analysing every little detail like the genius he is.

Apparently, he'd fallen asleep. At least, that's what it looks like to me, with his head resting on my stomach and arms wrapped loosely around my middle. Normally, I'd have pushed him away. But he doesn't _normally_ do shit like this, something all clingy, so I didn't. He wouldn't have come looking for comfort if he didn't need it. So I gave it to him.

"Aw, Sammy." I smile to myself, silently admitting that he's actually really fucking adorable. "Sweet dreams, Kiddo."

With that I reach for the remote, switch the T.V. off and lean down on my bed, doing my best not to stir Sam in his sleep. If he's not eating properly then he certainly can't afford to miss out on sleep too. So I stroke a hand through his hair and shut my eyes, exhaustion suddenly choking me and clouding my eyes.

I'll deal with Sammy's problems tomorrow. Promise.

* * *

"De?"

My eyes ping open at the mewl, my senses on red-alert for whatever threat it is that's scared my _baby_ brother into waking me up.

When I see nothing my eyes settle on Sammy, who is currently cuddling into my side and looking up at me with those huge hazel eyes of his. As soon as he notices that I'm trying to lock eyes with him he looks away, gnawing on his lower lip like a rabbit on a carrot.

"Sammy?" I groan, trying to expel sleep from my mind; my brother needs me right now. I can just feel it. Call it brotherly instincts or some shit like that. "You alright?"

He nods, looking so painfully conflicted that it makes me want to beat up his emotions for making him look so miserable. He shouldn't ever look like this. Not whilst I'm around, anyway. I should be able to make him happy in a heartbeat. It's what big brother's do, right? Apart from I can't. Not lately. And I hate myself for it.

"You sure? 'Cause if this is what you call 'alright' then I'd hate to see your definition of bad, Kiddo."

And that's all it takes.

Before I know it I've got a chest full of sobbing sixteen-year-old, a somewhat awkward situation seeing as my little brother is hardly little anymore. I make it work though, my searing worry for Sammy making me cradle him close, just like when he was a baby and Dad left it to me to stop him crying all night.

I can feel his tears soaking through my Led Zeppelin t-shirt but I don't give a shit about that because Sammy's _crying_. Something that he shouldn't ever be doing. Not like this anyway, not all hopeless and lost-sounding.

"Hey, hey, hey." I say, reaching out to turn the bedside lamp on, illuminating the room in a disconcerting yellowy glow, like cigarette smoke filtering through the room. "It's alright, Sammy, please don't cry, Kiddo." My chest tightens at the sounds of sobbing, of him gagging on his emotions and I pull him out of my chest, hating myself for it when it makes him cry even more but knowing it's necessary for him to regain his breath. "Shush, there. Just try to breathe for me, 'kay?"

He nods, his face all red and contorted in misery; he looks like hell and I can't help but feel at least marginally responsible.

I wait for him to catch his breath, for his sobs to weaken to whimpers and for the red of his face to fade to a brazen pink. It's still an agonizing sight but I'll take it over what I woke up to any day of the week. I just want him to be happy, that's all.

"Now you're gonna tell me what's going on in that head of yours."

"I'm f-"

"_Bullshit_." I snap, too tired and concerned to beat around the bush here. And too hurt that he's even thinking of hiding something from me. "Cut the crap, Sammy, I know as well as you do that something's not right. You're hardly eating, you like you've not had a good night's sleep in weeks and you're being all bitchy all of the time."

"I don't mean to be bitchy, De." He mumbles, looking very much like he wants to punch himself in the gut. "Sorry. You know I don't mean it, right? 'Cause I don't. Not at all. Sorry."

Fantastic. Now he thinks I'm mad at him. Well, maybe I am but not through any fault of his own. Because he's hurting and I want it to stop, not because he's done anything remotely bad.

Maybe this is why he hasn't come to me before now. Maybe this is why he acts almost like he's scared of me half of the time. Maybe it's all because I'm one massive fuck-up of a brother. Of course I am; he's just come to me for help, for comfort and all I've done so far is make it worse.

Swallowing past the lump of guilt solidifying in my throat, I prop myself up on my elbows so that we're both sat on my bed. I'm ending this tonight. I'm getting my baby brother back.

"I ain't mad at you, Sammy." I whisper, the words burning my mouth as they come out of it because I thought they were something I'd never have to say. "Not ever." He nods unsurely, looking like a lost, kicked puppy with nowhere to go. "I'm just worried."

"Sorry."

"Say sorry one more time and I swear to God, Sammy, I'll shave your head as you sleep." I retort, trying to hide my worried frustration behind a wall of normality. It makes him shrink away though, which in turn makes me pull the trembling kid into a hug. Fuck the 'no chick-flick moments' rule. Sometimes chick-flick moments are needed. "Just…" I sigh, knowing that I _have_ to get it right this time. "Just tell me what's wrong."

"I'm scared, De." He whimpers, hiding his face in my chest once more. I do nothing to stop it, the sincerity in his tone rattling me to the core and back out to the skin again. "Real scared and I don't know what to do because I know I'm fucked-up and stupid and weak."

There's pure self-hate in his tone and that scares me more than any monster ever will. Even more than Dad when I haven't cleaned the guns right and that's saying something. Because that tone of voice, that dull glint in his eyes, it's the kind of self-hate that someone has when they don't think they're worth anything. When they want to _die._

At that abominable thought I hold my baby brother closer, vowing to myself to never let him go again because nothing bad can ever happen to him when I'm holding him; I wouldn't ever let it. And God help anything that tries to hurt him.

"Hey, don't put yourself down, Kiddo. You're-"

"Gay."

I gawp at him, which he must take as the wrong answer because he starts full-on sobbing again, keening and all but screaming. Jesus Christ, poor kid.

"Is this what this whole thing is about?" I ask, pulling him back into me.

I suck at hugs but he doesn't seem to mind right now, apparently just glad that I don't hate him. That feels like a knife to the back, the idea he thinks I could ever do anything less than love him. Yeah, maybe I don't show it as often as I probably should but I really do.

Dammit, I fucking adore the kid.

He nods against me and the trepidation behind it hits me right where it hurts. I look down at him; I don't think he's ever appeared so small and young before. Not since he actually _was_ small and young and his biggest worry was what cartoon to watch next.

Damn, I miss those days.

"So, you're gay?" Another shy nod, this one slightly more confident than the last. "What's so bad about that? You like guys. It's not a bad thing, Sammy." He blinks up at me, a small smile starting to take root on his lips. Thank God. "And it doesn't change who you are. I mean, you're still Sammy Winchester, right? Still my baby brother."

"Yeah." He squeaks, properly smiling now. I didn't realise how much I've missed that smile, that genuine expression of happy contentment. "Always."

"Damn right." I press a kiss into his hair, inhaling the scent of his tropical shampoo. "And if anyone ever gives you any shit about it then I'll fucking castrate 'em. Dad would too." His eyes go wide and his breathing speeds up; great. I always fuck things up. Especially when they _really_ matter. "Hey, calm down, Kiddo. I won't tell Dad but know that he'll love you no matter what."

"He doesn't even love me now."

Wow. He's fallen far.

I can't believe that he's actually tricked himself into thinking something like that. Or maybe I can.

Sammy and Dad have been coming to blows a lot lately, usually about Sammy wanting a 'normal' life. I can hardly blame the kid for wanting that but, apparently, Dad can. He doesn't though, not really, he's just scared of losing his son. Just as I'm terrified of losing my brother.

"Of course he does, Sammy. He just has shitty way of showing it." I explain, hoping with every fibre of my being that I can get through to him, that he isn't too far gone. I wish there was a demon for me to fight to fix this but there isn't, not a physical one anyway. "Anything bad he says is because he's worried about losing you."

I make a mental not to a have a word with Dad about this when he gets back. A word that will probably start with a c and end with a t. And have u and n in the middle.

"Wait." He yawns, looking at me with semi-tired eyes. Still so young at heart. "You don't mind me being gay?"

"What?" I ask, incredulous. It shouldn't even be a question. But it is and I can't help but feel responsible for that. "No. Of _course_ not. As long as you don't tell me precisely where you stick your dick I don't give a shit what you do with it."

His laughter fills the room, the light airiness of it dispersing the dragging tension. The sound makes me feel good, like water after running, reminding me that everything's alright and all Sammy will ever need is right here with him. I know my words weren't exactly poetic but, well, poetic isn't us; what is us is _this_ and that seems to be enough for Sammy right now.

"Thanks." He smiles, our eyes locking. God, he looks so much like Mom. Always has done. It's the eyes, I think. And the smile. "And De?" I nod, letting him know he has my full attention. "I want bacon and eggs for breakfast. And toast and coffee."

"Sure thing, Sammy."

Just like that, I know everything is good again. At least, until next time.

* * *

**A/N: **Yes, yes I know that Sam isn't gay but I had this idea in my head and I really wanted to write this. I'm still relatively new to the fandom (this is my second fic, first from Dean's point of view) so I'm sorry if the characterization isn't good. Also, could be seen as a sort of follow-on from 'In Which Sam is Sammy' but wasn't meant as such.

Thank you very much for reading and please let me know what you think!


End file.
